It's

dusk

in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.
It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache.
I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.

I'm sat out the front of a cafe in Hatton Garden. I've just eaten a brie and bacon panini, and I'm rolling a cigarette. Feeling very London. An old man comes up to me and asks for a roll-up. I oblige.

Today I felt like starting

There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.

I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.